The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham

only just married.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It might perhaps have been wise to postpone your wedding until the cool season.’ He looked searchingly at her and she felt her cheeks flush. ‘But no matter, it is done. And you will love Simla and gain much benefit from being there.’

      ‘Will you visit as well?’

      ‘I have no reason to. No wife, no family. And though the mountain towns are beautiful, they are not for Indians. They have been built entirely by the British for the British. This is my place, here on the plains. My family are Rajputs and Rajputana is our homeland.’

      His voice rang with such pride that she could only murmur, ‘Your family must have a splendid history.’

      ‘We do, or rather we did. Now we serve the British. As a martial race, we are useful to them.’

      ‘Do you serve them or serve with them?’ something in his voice made her ask.

      ‘It is a nice distinction. I have been educated by the British and trained by them, so clearly I serve with them—but only in India. My commission does not allow me to command outside my own country. But the situation in Europe is changing fast and new threats are emerging all the time. It is beginning to look as though our martial skills will be needed far beyond India. As they were in the Great War.’

      She felt a small shiver of apprehension. ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

      ‘I hope so, too, but the news is not good.’

      ‘If Rajputana is your home, you must have family nearby.’ It was an attempt to lighten the conversation but she knew immediately that she had said the wrong thing. When he spoke it was in a voice that lacked all emotion.

      ‘Both my parents are dead and, as for my extended family, I have little contact with them. Our lives have taken very different paths.’ But then he was smiling once more. ‘You know, I am breaking rules by keeping a military vehicle idling outside, so if you’re ready to leave, we should make tracks for the bazaar.’

      She felt herself relaxing again. On closer acquaintance, she was finding Anish a strange mix of warmth and prickliness. For a while, she’d been tempted to talk to him about the letter and try to find out what he knew about the unknown Jack Minns, but she was glad now that she’d kept silent. She liked him, liked his frank face and his smiling eyes, but there were moments when she’d felt an invisible barrier slide into place between them.

      ‘I’ll get my bag this minute,’ and she jumped up from the table and started towards her bedroom. At the door she was struck by an unwelcome thought. ‘How will I find my way back from the bazaar? I imagine you must soon return to camp.’

      ‘You’re right. I must drop you and then leave, but I will let Gerald know where you are. He’ll make sure the syce, the chauffeur, collects you before lunch. If you’re lucky, he may even come himself.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      The jeep was retracing the road that yesterday she had driven along in the pony and trap. She was struck anew at the isolation of the bungalow, for there seemed not a single habitation within miles. Just acres of dry, glistening grass and rock and red dust, and in the distance a range of hills, their rims fudged and melting in the haze. In twenty minutes they had reached the small town. They wound their way through narrow streets and past huddled dwellings and hidden courtyards, till they reached a maze of small alleys milling with people and crowded with rickety stalls. Anish offered her his arm and steered her carefully through the mêlée. Sanitation was rudimentary and there was a strong smell of open drains. But there were other odours too, aromas of spice and pepper and incense from the shops they passed. Crowds of hot, sweating people jostled their way in and out of the narrow alleys, gathering around stalls which appeared to sell everything that any one person could want: rice and chillies, spices and saris, leather work sandals and bangles of fragile glass in rainbow colours. There were stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and stalls with mountains of sticky sweets wrapped in silver paper. In the thin strips of space between, several old men sat cross-legged, stitching clothes or boiling things in huge cooking pots. ‘They are called dekshis,’ Anish told her. ‘And the food is very good.’ Everywhere, heat, movement, people, colour.

      He came to a halt at a shop slightly larger than the rest, and with a banner overhead that read Johari Bazar. ‘You will enjoy yourself here. The owner’s name is Sanjay and he will look after you well. He’ll find you a trunk of materials for a few rupees, see if he doesn’t.’

      She felt a stir of panic and blurted out, ‘I’ve been very stupid, Anish, and brought only a little money with me.’ She did not want him knowing that all she had was a few grubby notes from her time on board ship, since Gerald had not thought to leave her anything.

      ‘You won’t need money. Gerald is sure to have an account and you must order what you want and the sum will be added to whatever is owed. This afternoon Sanjay will deliver your materials to the bungalow. It is all very civilised.’

      ‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’

      She thought she discerned that edge again but then wondered if she was imagining it. She wanted to reassure him that it was not the Indian way of doing things that made her hesitate but the fact that she had never in her life ordered anything on account. From where she came, you paid cash for whatever you wanted, and if you didn’t have the cash, your wants went unsatisfied.

      At Anish’s call, the stallholder came forward, waving her proudly into the shop and ready to display every bale of material he possessed. She turned to thank her escort for his kindness but he was already halfway back to the jeep and waving her a cheerful farewell.

      Before she’d taken two steps into the shop, a woman emerged from its depths holding a number of bright silk scarves in her large, capable hands. ‘Sanjay, old chap, can you take for these?’ She offered the shopkeeper a handful of tattered notes, then smiled across at Daisy.

      ‘You must be a newcomer. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Audrey Macdonald.’

      ‘Daisy, Daisy Mortimer. How did you know?’

      ‘That you were a newcomer? Easy,’ and she nodded in the direction that Anish had taken. ‘The mems wouldn’t like it but you don’t yet know that.’

      ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

      ‘Indians, my dear. You can’t fraternise. The mems will disapprove.’

      ‘Who are the mems?’ Daisy felt utterly confused. She hoped she was not always going to feel this much at sea.

      ‘Memsahibs. The older ones, that is. They run the place—socially, at least. What they say, goes, and friendship with Indians is a definite no.’

      She felt ruffled. She liked Anish and didn’t want to be told she couldn’t spend time with him. It gave her the courage to ask directly, ‘Are you one of them, one of the mems?’

      ‘Bless you, no. I’m not even married. I’m a nurse at the Infirmary. Sister Macdonald. But I’ve had enough dealings with them to know that newcomers soon learn to toe the line.’

      ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

      ‘You probably don’t but if you want to live peacefully, you’ll take heed.’ She must have noticed Daisy’s worried face because she went on with brisk reassurance, ‘The women aren’t all bad. And when they are insufferable, it’s not entirely their fault. They’re forced into pretty limited lives. There’s no job for them here, you see, not even running the house. The servants do that. Days spent doing nothing with no end in sight saps the spirit. It’s bound to leave you wearing blinkers.’

      ‘Then perhaps they should try removing them occasionally.’ The idea that her life was to be monitored and decided by others was annoying.

      ‘Perhaps